Be Not Afeard
by darthsydious
Summary: Sigurd Holmes passes away, not before offering some comfort to his sons.


"He's in a bad way," the doctor said quietly. "We've made him comfortable, but there isn't much else we can do."

"I see." Sherlock answered.

"You may want to let his relatives know."

"Thank you," Molly said and the doctor left them.

"Mycroft is on his way," John said.

"Yes…I texted him."

The heart-monitor was beeping steadily, and Sherlock suddenly had an awful memory of lying in a hospital bed, Mycroft nearby, whispering that he would not tell Mummy or Father of the drugs. Molly reached over the bed linens, lightly touching Sigurd's hand. Slowly, his eyes opened only a little. The corner of his mouth turned up, his good eye seemed to twinkle.

"See where she comes," he slurred. "apparell'd like the spring…she graces her subjects." Blinking hard, Molly bent, pressing his forehead.

They all gathered in Sigurd's room, waiting. They took turns, running for coffee or tea, offering to bring back something to eat, but no one was hungry. Conversation was quiet, sometimes they smiled at old jokes or stories. Midnight came and went, and they all took turns dozing.

It was half-past four when Molly sat up, rubbing her sore neck. Carefully, she moved Sherlock's head from her lap, placing a sofa pillow under it.

"Sherlock," she touched his shoulder and he started from his mind palace. "John and Mary and I are going down to the cafeteria for a quick bite, do you want me to bring you back anything?"

"Coffee."

"You should eat something,"

"Not hungry." She sighed and he finally looked up at her.

"Coffee," she nodded and she pressed a gentle kiss to him. "Back in a few, Mycroft?"

"Nothing for me, thank you."

The room was still again, save for Sigurd's rasping breath and the heart monitor.

"Mummy would hate to see him like this," Sherlock said finally.

"Indeed." The loss of Violet Holmes was still very fresh in their minds, only a year had passed since she died. In that year, Sigurd's health had declined rapidly. He recognized few people, only a few nurses and sometimes Molly. It was rare he recalled his sons, rarer what they looked like. The only thing he seemed sure of was Shakespeare. It was some small comfort, the one consistency in their father that they managed to take comfort in. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock wanted to speak of the absolute fear they shared, to end up as their father, no control over their thoughts, feelings, and the inability to remember even the simplest of tasks.

On a whim, Sherlock got to his feet, crossing the room, he seated himself by his father, touching his hand. A light sleeper, Sigurd slowly opened his good eye. Having been propped up on his pillows, he was able to see the room. He looked first to Sherlock.

"Where is your brother?" he asked suddenly, voice still much slurred. Shocked, having been forgotten for so long, Mycroft slowly rose to his feet, coming to stand at his arm. There seemed to be a spark of recognition in their father's face, and they waited, almost with bated breath. Sigurd opened his mouth and said:

"Be not afeard,"

Mycroft turned away, unsure of what his feelings were at the moment. The first one that came readily to mind was frustration. Anger. _Disappointment_.

Sherlock bowed his head, sighing. But Sigurd was still looking at them.

"Be _not_ afeard," he said again. Sherlock and Mycroft both looked at each other, and then at their father, who had fallen silent again. Almost thirty minutes passed before he spoke again. "What hour now?" Mycroft removed his pocket-watch, squinting in the dim light at the face

"It's just past-"

"I think it lacks of twelve," Sherlock replied. Mycroft put away his watch after a moment, realizing.

"No," he said slowly. "It is struck." Sigurd smiled, that twinkle in his good eye returned.  
"Please you, draw near-" his good arm crooked a finger at them. Exchanging curious glances, Mycroft and Sherlock inched forward. Again, Sigurd took a breath, and shut his eyes.

For a moment, no one moved. Mycroft bowed his head, hands folded behind his back. Sherlock stared, red-eyed and drawn at his father. Eyes still shut, Sigurd opened his mouth and he spoke. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, his words slurred. The speech was well memorized, and the Holmes brothers could hear their father's well-honed acting skills coming to the fore:

"_Now my charms are all o'erthrown, and what strength _

_I have's mine own, which is most faint. Now, 'tis true._

_I must be here confined by you. Or sent to Naples._

_Let me not, since I have my dukedome got and _

_Pardoned the deceiver, dwell in this bare island by your spell. _

_But release me from my bands with the help of your good hands _

_Gentle breath of yours my sails must fill, or else my project fails,_

_Which was to please. Now I want spirits to enforce, art _

_To enchant, and my ending is despair. Unless I be relieved by _

_Prayer, which pierces so that it assaults mercy itself and frees all faults." _

The passion with which Sigurd had spoken was gone as suddenly as it came, and he was weary. Slowly words formed again, and he grunted in pain, squeezing his eyes shut. Sherlock and Mycroft watched, their father determined to finish the speech.

"He cannot remember," Sherlock, disbelieving, blinked hard, willing away the burning sting in his eyes. It was not to be borne. Sigurd Holmes ever forgetting any piece from Shakespeare was unheard of. Mycroft, so shocked, could not speak a moment. He floundered for words.

"As…you…from crimes would pardoned be-" Sigurd looked at him, eyes watering, from pain or gladness, they did not know.

"Let… your indulgence set me free." Sherlock finished. Sigurd sighed a deep breath none of them realized he'd been holding. He smiled at them, breaths coming more evenly now, slowing. He shut his eyes, and said no more.


End file.
